Carol A. Beane—a wordsmith at heart—has lived, loved, and worked in DC since 1991—teaching Spanish language + African-Hispanic literature + Simultaneous Interpretation + Translation at Howard University.
Beane’s work is represented in private and public collections, among them: The Library of Congress, Rare Books + Special Collections; the NYPL’s Schomburg Center for Research on Black Culture; The Yale University Art Museum; and the National Museum of Women in the Arts.
“Poetry has been my constant. My words strive to claim that which has been frequently missed, abandoned, understated, omitted, or ignored—be it in the history/culture of the African diaspora, or details, incidents and moments of daily life. Collaborating with Michael Platt and Renée Stout, among others, creating artists books, broadsides and wordscapes have been significant on-going creative journeys in my life.
NW is my quadrant of DC. Malcolm X Park [aka Meridian Hill park], my touchstone site of trees that have seen much; a site holding many memories and stories, known and yet to be shared. It is a place of being, of presence; witnessing changes. Entitlement nowadays has become a primary modus vivendi for many—save for those who continue the struggle for compassion and community.”
Sleeping Naked
She was 92 years and 7 months
when she decided to sleep naked.
The first time was when she dreamt
about an old friend, a coulda been lover
but wasn’t …
On the first night of the full moon,
the moon bathed her in whispers,
silvery breezes, faint noises of flowers opening;
mother of pearl poppies floating on her café au lait
with a touch of cinnamon self.
Sleeping naked her first night, delighting in it,
until dawn came, tremulous and delicate,
almost timid—and that was only the first time.
She gave herself over to the silence of the woods at night
and to the faint starlight, joining laughing wild women,
become with them, dark trees, dancing wildly,
temptresses for the instant.
Moonlight blessed blessing—
now she divines the time
by where sunlight falls on her legs.
He was sick you know, so it couldn’t be,
but really, I liked that fellow so much,
so very very much…
The doves’ murmurings come, interrupting dawn,
announcing the new day.
Sandra Beasley is the curator of “Poetic Hill,” a resident of Southwest, and the author of four poetry collections. If you live in D.C. and you’re interested in being featured, you can reach her at sandrabeasley@earthlink.net for questions and submissions (1-5 poems).
